


Performance

by orphan_account



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Misunderstandings, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misunderstanding.</p><p>Alfred meets someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

I was standing with a group of escorts about to be led to a holding cell when I saw him.  He was standing on the squad room’s second level talking to the handsome blonde detective, Gordon.  I noticed even from across the room how sad his eyes looked, how tired.

I lost sight of him when a smirking detective grabbed my arm and started pulling me away from the group.  He was wearing too much cologne and wore half a tube of gel in his hair.  He nearly had me out the door when Bullock caught up to us and pulled me away by my other arm.

“Told you this was a damn stupid idea,” he muttered, moving between me and Detective Too-much-cologne before my heel slipped on the marble floor. 

Strong hands caught me and set me back on my feet and I looked up into the sad, tired eyes of the man I noticed earlier. He felt so solid, strong, and he smelled like old-fashioned shaving soap. He just nodded and released me slowly, ensuring himself that I was standing on my own before removing his hands and turning to go.

“Th, thank you.” I managed.

“No trouble at all, Miss.” Mr. Sad-eyes had a lovely deep rumbling voice and an English accent.  I don’t know much about English accents but I can tell his isn’t from the right side of the tracks.  It doesn’t entirely match, his voice much rougher than his manner.  He’s walking out the door as I watch his back, Bullock and Detective Too-much-cologne continue to fight behind me.  Bullock sends me home a minute later but by the time I’m outside there’s no trace of Mr. Sad-eyes.

*

The next time I see him is a few days later at a charity gala I was only at as a favor.  My “date” for the night has had at least 3 vodkas too many at the open bar and has dragged me into an empty room to let me know how unhappy he is with me questioning the job he set up for me.  Things get out of hand quickly.  I wasn’t expecting to actually get slapped so my head swings too far with the blow and bounces off of the wall. 

I’ve only been hit accidentally before and I don’t take this hit well.  I’m crouching down with my hands over my head and crying when I hear a thud and see my “date” laid out flat on the floor.  I look up in a panic and see Mr. Sad-eyes.  “Let’s get you up, Miss,” he says gently, offering me his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I say on reflex.

“Nothing for you to be sorry for.” He's strong and calming.  Gentle as he looks at the side of my face, uses his handkerchief to wipe under my eyes like I'm a child.  I see his handkerchief is covered in makeup and cried-off mascara after he pulls it back.

“I shouldn’t go out there, like this . . . “ I have no idea how much of a mess my face might be, but I can feel my updo has fallen to one side and the pins are pinching and poking against my scalp.

He leads me through a door in the wall and down a narrow corridor, we pass through the kitchen where the catering staff is cleaning and packing up and then we’re down a wide hall, through a door and into a sitting room.  The room is decorated like the rest of the place, very English manor, but this room isn’t as large as the front of the house.  He gestures to the long leather sofa, “If you’ll wait here I’ll arrange a car to take you home.”

I nod and he’s gone.  There’s another door across the room, I peak and it’s a bedroom. I find an en suite and splash some water on my face and let my hair down.  I pick up a mug of shaving soap, his mug I'm sure, inhaling as I think _old-fashioned_.  I smile at myself in his mirror and imagine his eyes again before returning to the sofa. I look at the velvet pillow propped against the arm three times before I finally give in and lay my head down.  

I don’t remember closing my eyes. When I open them I see firelight, and I hear his deep voice, “I was just debating waking you.” He’s in his dress shirt, tie loosened but still on, jacket and waistcoat missing.

“I didn’t mean to sleep-“ I start to say.

“I’ve brought your things,” he waves to my purse and coat on the matching deep leather chair across from the one he’s occupying in front of the fire. “Your . . . friend was sent home already.” 

“He wasn’t a friend,” I say automatically.

“Business acquaintance, then.”

“Not after tonight,” I sit up and crack my neck. I’m stiff from sleeping half sitting, head on the pillow and feet on the floor.

There’s silence and after a minute I finally rise and walk to the chair across from his.

“There’s a car waiting,” he clears his throat, “whenever you’re ready.”

“My knight in shining armor, iron-horse and all,” I joke.

He laughs gently, a deep smooth chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve been called that before.”  I realize he moved closer, standing right behind me.  He takes the coat from my hands and drapes it over my shoulders.

“A knight and a gentleman.  Thank you.” I smile over my shoulder.

“Never been called that either,” and this time he gives me a cheeky smile.  His eyes look less sad and I realize he’s staring at me.  Not to sound conceited but I’ve gotten used to it, to men staring. I take the opportunity to turn to face him. I move slowly into his personal space, hoping he won’t flinch away.

“I find that hard to believe,” I run one hand up to the center of his chest where he catches my hand.

“You shouldn’t flatter old men,” he tries to smile but it looks melancholy, “you can’t predict the reaction you might inspire.”

“I think I’ve inspired exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” I say in a whisper as I move closer, letting my other hand just barely brush against the front of his pants and shrugging my coat from my shoulders. I nuzzle the base of his throat, enjoying the smell of him, but I can’t reach high enough to kiss him unless he bends down a little. “Let’s not play the game where you say you’re old and I say you’re not.  Let’s play the one where I say, ‘I think you’re handsome’ and then you kiss me.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” He said it with effort, his eyes on my lips.

I smile, “I think it’s more foolish if a man doesn’t kiss the woman he wants to kiss, especially when she’s requested it.” My hand becomes firmer against his pants, he's quite hard, and he groans.  “I don’t think I’ve had anyone turn me down since high school, and coming from you, a man I can see clearly wants me, it’s turning me on,” I tell him.

“Time to stop being a gentleman,” I whisper as I start to undo his pants, kissing his neck.  It’s sudden, the change when he gives in to what he wants.  Suddenly he’s kissing me and it’s wonderful. He’s warm and solid and passionate and he needs me.

Eventually I push him back into his chair, make a big show of sliding down his legs, pulling out his cock, stroking it as I suck and lick at his scrotum before I take his cock into my mouth and give him the best blowjob I think I’ve ever given. His hands in my hair but not pushing, still the gentleman. Only one sharp shout escapes his mouth when he comes, earlier than I expected, I wonder if it’s been a while, otherwise he’s quiet except for gasps when I've done something very right.  He smiles after.  He’s relaxed and looking easily ten years younger.  He quietly chuckles and looks about to say something.

I smile up at him, slowly moving in to kiss him in case he doesn’t want to meet my mouth.  I expect him to push me onto my back in front of the fire, or to carry me into the bedroom.  I want his head between my thighs, I want him to undress me and tease me and grow hard again and -. He wants to, I see it, I feel the hesitation in his hands, shaking through his entire body.

Before I can kiss him, before anything else, he stops me. He looks into my eyes and I see a curtain fall behind his.  He grows sad again, and then he does something very unexpected.  He politely excuses himself and leaves the room. I straighten up, standing by the fire and wondering what the hell is going on.

A moment later he’s back, looking as perfectly put together as ever, and even sadder than when I first saw him. He’s not meeting my eye.  I can't look at him so I turn to retrieve my coat as he says, “It’s not my place, Miss,” he starts, “but your . . . occupation” he clears his throat, “is likely to result in similar incidents to the one earlier this evening, or worse.”

His hand appears at my side and he’s holding out an envelope. My back is to him, so he only sees it stiffen.  He doesn’t see the confusion on my face, doesn’t see my eyes go wide as it hits me.  I realize;  _holy shit he thinks I’m a hooker_.

“Rebecca,” I say as I turn, stage smile firmly in place, envelope ignored.  “Please, call me Rebecca.  I’m sure it’s late. I should leave you to what’s left of your evening.”  

He sets the envelope on the arm of the chair and goes to find his jacket.  I take a chance, and leave the envelope and a note at the back of the seat of the chair he occupied earlier before moving to the door. As I hoped, when he comes back he only looks to see that the envelope is gone from where he left it before escorting me again down the dark hall and through a maze of rooms to the front hall of the house. This time we walk apart, in awkward silence.

“Miss Redding! I thought you had gone.” The young man’s voice echoed across the expansive entryway.

“I’m just on my way out, Mister Wayne. Thank you again for hosting such a lovely event.” I say with a smile as I shake his hand.

“Thank you for coming.  I know these things are awful, and it was a last minute favor, but your being here brought in some very big donors for a very good cause.”

“I’m glad I could help, and it was a rather easy way to repay Detectives Gordon and Bullock for helping me with my research.”

“Detective Gordon mentioned that, but he wouldn’t tell me what your role is.  Are you playing a police officer?”

“Umm, how old are you, Mister Wayne?” I laugh.

He smiles that perfect tween smile, “So you’re playing a part I’m not supposed to know about.  I’ll guess a, ‘lady of the evening’ is what Alfred would say is the phrase to use in polite company.” We both laugh as Mr. Sad-eyes ( _Alfred_ , I think) gives a deep, wordless grumbling noise.

“Yes, well that was the plan but it’s become necessary to change agents I think, so I might not stick with the part.  I’m not sure the role suits me.”  We’ve reached the car and I thank them both before sliding alone into the back seat and closing my eyes, trying to stop feeling turned on as the car glides smoothly down the gravel drive.

*

As the car drives away Bruce Wayne says, “She was nominated for an Oscar last year, for that movie you wouldn’t let me see. The one with the woman who fakes her death and frames her husband.”

Alfred clears his throat, “Its quite late Master Bruce, and you’ve got school tomorrow.”

When Alfred returns to his room he pours himself an uncharacteristically large scotch.  As he takes his usual seat by the fire he both feels and hears the crinkle of paper beneath him.  There on the outside of the envelope he tried to give her are the words,

_Rebecca Redding_

_Four Seasons Gotham_

_Presidential Suite_

_Tomorrow, 11am_

Inside of the envelope is all of the money he tried to give her, along with an electronic key to a hotel room.  Under the envelope is a small square of fabric. Alfred picks it up and it unfolds to reveal an extremely expensive pair of lace knickers.  Alfred can't help but notice they're soaking wet.  He downs the scotch.

 

 


	2. two

At exactly 11am he knocks.  _Figures_ , I think.

I open the door wide and sweep my arm towards the room, “Please, come in.”  He walks forward a few steps and stands, stiff and awkward, near the suite’s seating area.  He’s all dark wool and seems out of place in the sun-filled pastel room.

“I wasn’t sure that you would come.” I say as I close the door and walk towards him.

“I owe you an apology, Ma-am-“

“MA-AM!” My eyebrows are somewhere near my hairline. “Yeah, no. You do not call me ma-am.”

“Miss” he tries.

“Rebecca.” I say firmly. 

He looks like hell.  I don’t think he slept and he looks ashamed, like he desperately wants to drop to his knees and flog himself in front of me.

“Let’s try this,” I stick my hand out, “Hello.” He returns my handshake, playing along but looking miserable about it. “I’m Rebecca Redding, I’m an actress.  I am in Gotham researching a part for a movie. My last STD screen was clean and that was two months ago.  Since then I hadn’t had unprotected sex until last night.”

“-“ He just stares at me.

“Unprotected oral sex counts as unprotected sex.” I try for simple and matter-of-fact but I think I sound like a schoolmarm. I also don’t let go of his hand.

I really didn’t think he could look more uncomfortable than he did when he walked in. I was wrong.

There’s a long pause and he starts shaking my hand again, “Alfred Pennyworth, I work for Bruce Wayne.” Another very long pause, “My last STD screen was, I don’t bloody know, 5 years ago, maybe.  Do they . . . ? They take blood every year to test cholesterol, do they check things then?”  

“No, they don’t.” I say gently as I lower our stilled hands so I’m just holding his.

“I’m sorry, the last time I was tested was clean, and I haven’t been with anyone since.  I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“Left me hanging?” I interrupt.  His face turns pink.

I can’t help it, I start laughing.

He pulls his hand away and reaches into his coat pocket.  He takes out a small box and hands it to me.

“Miss Redding, I am deeply sorry for my behavior and for making an assumption-“

“You didn’t assume.” I interrupt again as I take the box.  “I was working the first time we met, well, researching for work.  I was supposed to be a sex worker, people were supposed to believe that I was a sex worker.  I was the one who assumed last night that you knew who I was, which was arrogant and wrong of me.  I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing for YOU to be sorry for.” He says firmly, sad blue eyes begging me to believe that, to let him self-flagellate.

“May I take your coat?” I can’t help but smile as he just stares at me once again.  Before he can answer I put the box on the coffee table and reach up and start helping him out of his coat.  He makes a soft grumbling noise but allows me to take it.  When I turn back from hanging his coat in the closet he’s standing with both hands behind his back in the British butler guy version of parade rest.

I pull him over to the sofa where he grudgingly takes a seat, still stiff.  I sit facing his side, kneeling with my arm resting along the back.  “What did you bring me?”

He retrieves the box from the coffee table and hands it to me.  My panties are folded inside, and they’ve been washed.  I twirl them around my finger.  He looks on, uncomfortable.

“I gave these to you.” I tease.

He looks annoyed.

“You don’t think they’ll fit?  You certainly are rather thick, but I think you’re more of a grower so . . . Want to try them on?” I’m hoping he’ll at least crack a smile.  No dice.

“Miss Redding-“

“Rebecca.” I interrupt.

“Rebecca. Stop interrupting, it’s bloody rude.”

“You look like you didn’t sleep, I’m sorry.” I say, ignoring him.

“And stop apologizing.” He says.

“I will if you will.” I tease.

“You deserve an apology, I deserve-“ He’s looking like he wants to flog himself again.

“What I deserve is an orgasm, if not multiple-“ I start to say.

“Miss Redding!” He interrupts me this time

“Rebecca.”

He just stares at me again.  I smile before I lean forward to nuzzle his neck, getting just a whiff of that clean, sexy, shaving soap smell before he catches my shoulders and holds me back.

“I’m old enough to be your father.” He says, half chastising and half sad.

“I’m 38.” Now he really looks shocked. “Good genes, a Beverly Hills dermatologist and a lead actress budget.  You’re what . . .? 50, maybe?”

“51.” He says.

“So, not old enough to be my father.”

Another long awkward pause, but he releases my shoulders.

“I thought you were . . . “

“A lady of the evening.” I fill in, smiling, trying to get him to smile.

“ . . . and I still . . .” He seriously looks like he wants to pummel himself.

“Alfred, my guess is you’ve lead a very interesting life.  I would also guess last night wasn’t the first time you might have . . . well, I didn’t even know your name and you don’t judge me for what I did, right?”

He nods but doesn’t look any less wretched.

“How much was in the envelope?” I ask.

“A little over $18,000.”  He looks down at the floor.

“$18,000?!”  Now I’m shocked.

“It was all the cash I had on hand.”

“Alfred, based on my research for that part, that’s more than the going rate for act you thought you were paying for.” I lean forward, trying to get him to look at me instead of the floor. “A lot more.”

For a moment he looks like he’s going to say something. Again, he stops himself. I can feel his body tense, ready to run.

“What were you going to say?” I ask as I catch his arm.

“It wasn’t . . . I thought you needed it, money. I thought you could use it . . . “ he trails off.

“You were giving me money so I could do something other than prostitution?” He nods, “You are the nicest, sweetest, old-fashioned, man.” I smile as I slowly slip my arms around his neck.  He continues to sit there stiffly.

“A nice man would have just given you the money,” he grumbles.

“A nice woman wouldn’t have shoved her hand into your pants after you told her to stop.” I say, as I rest my head on his shoulder, not giving up my position for fear he might leave.

“I never told you to stop.” He says quietly.

I run through my memory, finding his exact words. “You said it wasn’t wise.”

“I didn’t want to be another man who took advantage. Not to mention it was irresponsible of me, I was at work and-“

“Wait.” I interrupt, something catching in the back of my mind.  “You said you were clean on your last test?”

He stiffens again, “Yes.”

“You said ‘five years ago’, and then you said you hadn’t been with anyone.  Not, ‘haven’t been with anyone without protection’, but ‘haven’t been with anyone’” he tries to rise but I pushed him back, turning to look into his eyes and sitting half on his lap so he won’t leave, “And the way you suddenly . . . and you were so fast-“

“Fast!”

“I just mean-“

“Yes, I know what you mean.” He tried to lift me off and set me on the couch but I push back against his shoulders.

“Did I force you?” I ask in a panic, “Did you not want-“

“I wanted.” He interrupts. He looks pained; he raises one hand towards my face but lets it fall back without touching me. “I very much wanted . . . But why would you . . .?“ 

“Because you smell really good.” I say honestly, shaking my head and smiling at him.

“-“ Shocked silence, again.

I lean in slowly to kiss him, giving him time to push me away.  This time he doesn’t, he pulls me closer, holds me tightly as he kisses me, and kisses me, and kisses me.

“Alfred,” I say later.  He hums against my neck in reply, “it certainly doesn’t hurt that you’re also handsome,” I say as I shift to kiss behind his ear. He slides an arm under my thighs and picks me up easily, “And really strong.” I keep kissing as he carries me through the open doors to the master bedroom.  He sets me carefully on the bed and straightens to remove his jacket, stepping back to lay it over a plush chair.

As he removes his waistcoat and cufflinks I kneel on the bed and watch him.  When he pulls off his tie in a hiss of silk I throw my shirt over my head. He’s in front of me before it hits the floor.  His arms are around me, hands sliding over my back as he kisses me.  We’re on the bed in a tumble, legs hanging off, can’t stop kissing, desperately sliding our hands over each other.

I’m concentrating on unbuttoning his shirt without being able to look when I suddenly feel his hand cupping me. I gasp when he does it, breaking the kiss, pulling back my tongue.  He’s undone my jeans and his hand is inside.  I’m whining, trying to work my jeans down with my feet.

“Shhh,” he says, in that deep gravely voice, “Let me.” He rubs my clit through my panties a few times before he removes his hand to push them off with my jeans. His face disappearing between my thighs and I yelp, I feel him laugh against my pussy before his tongue is in me and his finger is rubbing beside my clit again and he’s got his other hand squeezing the outside of my thigh. 

“God yes, godyesgodyes” I chant as he switches fingers and mouth, sucking and swirling and teasing and sliding.  I come hard, orgasm hitting like a freight train, my hand fisting in his hair. 

He chuckles lightly against the inside of my thigh, kissing the soft skin on my leg as he says, “so, I’m fast?”

I laugh, looking up at the ceiling. I feel him slide up my body, smooth shirt and fine wool pants against my bare skin.  “Well, I think I was still primed.” I take his face in my hands, his impossibly still immaculate face, and bring his lips to mine. I taste myself in his mouth.

When he finally breaks the kiss he rests his forehead against mine, strokes my face and my hair as he holds himself above me. “Whatever else you want, my dear.”

I press my hand to the front of his pants and he can’t hold in the “Bloody hell!” that erupts from his mouth.  I just laugh, back to unbuttoning his shirt. He has to straighten up and kneel to remove it, both of us laughing at how much trouble it takes him to shake it free.  His chest has a patch of the same salt-shot hair that he has on his head.  He’s lean and strong and solid and I pull him onto his back and open his pants, pushing them off.

He pulls me into his lap and sits up, his mouth on my breasts, pulling the cups of my bra down. He sucks on my nipples as I grind against his hard stomach.  We’re both shoving away the last remnants of clothing, trying to stay attached, laughing at the impossibility of it.  I like his laugh; I like the way it feels echoing in his chest and making his eyes twinkle.  His mouth is back on my nipples, my breasts in his hands and soon enough I’m trying to shift back to take his cock in.

He swings me around onto my back, “Please tell me you have protection.”

I shake my head, “implant, covered,” my hips still squirming for contact. He nods.

He moves onto his knees and spreads them wide, beautiful strong thighs on display.  He smoothes his hands up one of my legs to hold it straight against his chest, my ankle near his ear.  I wrap the other leg around his thigh, resting it just under his ass; I push him forward with the back of my calf.  He moves in to me, pushes in slow and steady and deep and thick. “Fuck” he hisses as his balls touch my ass. He uses my leg to help pull up and lift my hips, to angle his cock in me as he pumps.  Slow and easy, and he’s very gently holding the top of my pussy open so my clit is exposed, getting little brushes as our bodies move.

“Oh Jesus, Alfred, yes, faster.”  The faster he moves the more my breasts shake, the more they shake the more the sight makes him moan in his chest, the more he moans the more I laugh, making them shake.

He goes faster and harder, lowers my leg and wraps it around his side, he moves in to kiss me, to flip our positions so I’m on top of him, my breasts skimming that course hair on his chest, my hands on his ribs so I feel a deep groan reverberate through him.  As I circle my hips he raises his hand to my face, brushing my hair away.  His other hand moves to my hip, slides around to palm my ass.

“You’re holding back?” I ask as I ride faster, letting him slip in and out more.  He just gasps but doesn’t reply and I can tell he’s concentrating on not coming, “Still my gentleman.”

I feel him teasing between my legs and then his slick finger is sliding into my ass as he fucks up into me and I’m coming again, just before he does.  He wraps his arms around me and squeezes as we come down, his heart hammering under my ear.

*

“Rebecca?” His voice rumbles and I turn my head to look at his face, chin resting on his chest, body pressed flush to his side. He gently strokes my hair as he continues with a teasing smile, “I don’t believe gentlemen do that.”

I laugh with him as I trace my fingers through his chest hair and ask, “Want to show me anything else gentlemen don’t do?”


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to add anything more, but it happened anyway.

_3 weeks after_

“Alfred, Look! It’s Miss Redding!”

Alfred looks at the doorway before he realizes the young man is pointing at the television.  Bruce was flipping channels after the news ended and stopped when he saw a close-up of Rebecca Redding’s face.  It’s some kind of medieval or fantasy film, she’s in something similar to a flowing toga.  It must be halfway through the film; she’s unfastening the clasp at her shoulder and her dress falls to the floor. 

Alfred has his hand over Bruce’s eyes two seconds later. “Hey!” Bruce grumbles, “I have seen naked girls before.”

The camera pans up from the shot of the dress at her feet, over long legs and a pert behind, turning to linger over her breasts as the male character approaches her, “That’s not even her!” Alfred takes his hand away from Bruce's eyes to gesture at the screen in annoyance.

“Why do you say it isn’t her?” Bruce asks, his eyes glued to the screen. It’s Rebecca’s face in the close-ups, and her voice, but the shots of breasts and ass and the male actor touching, that isn’t her body.

“When exactly have you seen a naked girl?” Alfred asks, as the scene ends and he finally looks away from the TV to the now pouting young man.

Bruce doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought.” Alfred says before he resumes straightening up the room.

*

_8 weeks after_

Bruce accused him of being in a bad mood. Again.  It’s the 3rd time this week and its only Tuesday.  Alfred retreats to the kitchen and starts opening the mail. 

There’s a large envelope with international postage addressed to him.  When he opens it he pulls out a bundle of postcards tied together by a ribbon, an envelope on top with his name written across it.  The note inside reads,

_Alfred,_

_I love postcards but hate thinking of everyone at the post office reading my mail._

_-Rebecca_

_p.s. you forgot these._

There, at the bottom of the mailing envelope, is the box he brought her the last time they saw each other.  Folded inside are the same lace knickers she left in his room. He puts the box in his top drawer, where he keeps his cufflinks. He sees it every morning and every night.

*

_A selection of postcards_

London, England

_A,_

_Wandering around London after a meeting.  Everyone sounds almost like you, but not enough._

_-R_

London, England

_A,_

_If I had more time here I would go to every shop until I find your shaving soap. I’m sure it’s here in one of the places that have been selling it since a time when men only used straight razors._

_-R_

Dubrovnik,Croatia

_A,_

_Did you know that Croatia is beautiful? I wonder if you’ve been here before._

_-R_

Dubrovnik,Croatia

_A,_

_If we could go back to that afternoon I would ask you about each scar._

_-R_

*

_9 weeks after_

I had just come off of 14 hours freezing in a gauzy costume on a hillside.  I was cold, dirty, and exhausted.  I saw the box on the table as soon as I walked into my hotel room.  A note from the hotel staff said it was hand delivered.

As soon as I open it I can see him. I had a line in a movie once that scent spurs the strongest memory, and in this moment I think it’s true.

Inside of the box is a cake of his shaving soap and a note,

_R,_

_I’d tell you the story behind each one._

_-A_

 

 

 


End file.
